Coughing and Collarbones
by PuffPiece
Summary: Sam's sidelined with an illness. Dean's got the hunt handled. Right?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

A/N: New Year. New Story. Same fascination with injuring Dean.

His last words to Sam had been, "Trust me. I can handle this."

He hadn't wanted to call a halt to the hunt, not even after he'd relegated Sam to the sidelines with a rather nasty case of bronchitis, and so he'd reassured his younger brother that he could take care of the spirit on his own. Had been doing so for years while Sam had been off at Stanford. Nothing to it.

Famous last words.

He's now wishing that he had Sam as his backup, the spirit in question slightly more pissed off than he'd been expecting. What with the anniversary of its death and all. A little nugget that Sam had mentioned once or twice or ten times, but that Dean had conveniently blown off.

So it really shouldn't have come as any kind of surprise that the spirit had been spoiling for a fight. Had, in fact, put up some rather spectacular resistance to being salted and burned.

His first clue should have been the endless string of normally stationary objects that had begun hurtling towards him as soon as he had set foot in the tiny cemetery on the outskirts of town. After all, it's not every day that park benches and cement urns learn how to fly.

Add to that the fact that this spirit seems to have a penchant for screaming its head off, threatening to perforate Dean's eardrums with its ear-piercing wails, and he really isn't enjoying this job one iota.

Not to mention the fact that it's taking him at least twice as long as it should have to dig up the grave, what with the constant need to keep his head on a swivel, ever vigilant for the next attack, as well as the necessity of having to keep blasting the thing to kingdom come with his salt rifle every other minute, barely allowing him to get a couple of shovels full of dirt out of the grave before having to blast the dammed thing all over again.

So it's with a cackle of glee that he finally breaks through the wooden top of the rotten casket, quickly emptying his salt container over the remains of the well decomposed body before peeking up over the edge of the hole he's dug, kicking himself once again for not having Sam here to cover him while he scrambles out of the grave.

And just as he's about to put the finishing touches on his spirit flambé, he hears yet another god-awful shriek, the noise distracting him just enough to send his next rocksalt shower off its mark, allowing the spirit to drive into Dean and slam him into the ground with a force substantially stronger than its partially corporeal body should really be able to create.

Dean's right shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, his collarbone snapping under the weight of his barely visible but extremely pissed off attacker, while the breath is driven out of his lungs by a combination of the physical compression of his ribcage and the excruciating pain centered in his right upper chest.

He lies on the ground for just a few seconds, trying to catch his breath, grateful that at least the spirit's efforts seem to have affected it as well, its presence dissipating in the blink of an eye after having pile-driven Dean into the cemetery's hard packed earth.

The experienced hunter quickly stuffs the pain deep down inside and struggles into a seated position just in front of the grave, his left hand fumbling across his body for the lighter in his right side coat pocket when it quickly becomes evident that any motion at all by his right shoulder is liable to trigger a trip into unconsciousness, pulling the cheap plastic Bic out rather triumphantly and flicking the flame to life before throwing the whole thing down into the casket.

He watches with satisfaction as both remains and spirit go up in flames, allowing himself a moment of gratification that another hunt has been completed, another town can put their worries to rest, before finally giving himself the opportunity to try to figure out just how bad off he really is.

Because he knows it's not good.

He opens and closes his right hand a few times, slightly comforted by the fact that he can still feel his fingers and that they all seem to be responding to his commands.

It's when he tries to move his right shoulder at all that the issue arises.

The grinding sensation in his collarbone elicits blinding pain, causing him to double over, his left hand traveling up to his right collarbone in an effort to provide some form of support while his mouth lets loose a string of expletives that impresses even him.

Once he's managed to gain some semblance of control over his body, his brain registers the wrongness of the feel of the bone under his left hand. And while he's pretty sure there's not supposed to be a bump there (not that big, anyway), he lets out a slight sigh of relief when he pulls his hand away and finds it free of blood. His relief is short-lived, however, when a miniscule amount of further probing confirms that the ends of his definitely broken collarbone aren't lining up properly.

 _Shit._

He slowly gathers his belongings with his left hand, his right arm tucked snugly against his side in an effort to prevent any movement whatsoever of his shoulder, and makes his way carefully to the car, all the while thinking how well and truly screwed he is.

Because he'd told Sam that he could handle this. Had told him not to worry. Had reassured him that he didn't need his little brother there as backup.

His only saving grace is the fact that Sam might be too sick to notice.

()o()o()o()o()

Sam idly wonders just how much force it actually takes for a person to cough up a lung. Because he's pretty sure he's giving it a good try.

He'd been fine up until a couple of days ago. Had been feeling great, in fact; good energy levels, good mood, feeling confident about their case.

He should have known it was too good to last.

They'd been in the midst of the research stage of their latest hunt, hunkered down in a hole-in-the-wall motel that Dean had picked out based on its cheesy motif. Literally. They're in the middle of Wisconsin, famed home of cheese curds and Cheeseheads, staying in the Cheddar Wheel Motor Lodge, trying to figure out why this town has a sudden upswing in violent attacks every year around this time.

Sam had been delighting in the research of the hunt, talking with the locals, searching news sources both online and at the library, and had finally made the necessary connections in the case, leading them to the grave Dean's currently trying to desecrate.

At first, he'd thought he'd just gotten a poor night's sleep – thought the fatigue and achiness were due to the lumpy mattress and the scratchy sheets of their third-rate motel. But then the coughing had begun. And then the low-grade fevers. And then the wheezing.

The final straw had come last night, when Sam had awoken gasping for breath, his violent fit of coughing eliciting a concerned "Dude, you okay over there?" from his half-awake older brother. The audible wheezing that trailed after the coughing fit like an afterthought did nothing to help the younger Winchester's reassurances that he was fine.

And so, his overprotective big brother had effectively benched him, relegating him to the dingy motel room while Dean was off ridding the world of yet another baddie, while he himself tries to not cough himself into oblivion.

And as if his physical symptoms weren't bad enough this time around, he's got to worry about Dean.

Because while he knows Dean has done this hundreds of times on his own (if his brother's overzealous assurances are to be believed), he's still never fully able to squelch the worry he feels when he's not there to help.

Especially with this one. He just has a feeling that the spirit's approaching death anniversary is going to make it slightly more difficult than usual, regardless of Dean's dismissal of the same.

And while he still can't believe Dean benched him for this one, both hunters having been doing the job long enough to have played sick and/or injured on plenty of jobs in the past, he does have to agree with his big brother just a tad (although he'd never tell him that - might make his brother's head explode). Because he's really not quite sure how much of a help he'd have been this time around. Short of wheezing the spirit into the Great Beyond.

His little huff of a laugh at that thought is enough to send his body into another fit of wracking coughs, effectively rendering him helpless until he can manage to suck in a few paltry breaths of air, each of them ending in a whistle that only serves to punctuate Dean's rightness in his decision-making at leaving him behind.

 _Dammit._

It's not until his breathing finally returns to normal that he realizes that the rumbling he'd thought had been coming from his own traitorous body is actually coming from a car, the Impala's engine becoming distinctive as it draws ever closer, finally coming to a halt on the other side of the motel room door.

The niggling ball of worry that's been rivaling the cough for Sam's fullest attention dissipates at the sounds of his brother's return, Dean's safety always forefront on his mind even when it's not on his brother's.

Because Dean has a penchant for finding trouble even when he's not looking for it. Especially when he's not looking for it. And especially when Sam's not around to keep him on the straight and narrow. Although that in and of itself is a rather full time job.

Sam's half-hearted eyeroll and automatic accompanying huff at his internal dialogue sets off yet another spasm of coughing, leaving the younger Winchester gasping for breath, praying that somehow his next few days with Dean won't be filled with condescending "I told you so's" and big brother overprotectiveness.

He doubts he'll be that lucky.

"Oh god," he groans when he finally has air in his lungs again, pushing himself up in order to slump against the headboard of the bed in an effort to not look quite as pathetic as he feels.

He's got the sneaking suspicion that he's failing miserably.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

A/N: A heartfelt Thank You to each and every one of you Reviewers, Followers, and Favorite-ers. You guys are awesome!

Dean lets the Impala's engine idle for a few minutes, unable to put the car in park or turn the keys in the ignition with his right hand, given the incapacitating pain that just the thought of said motion elicits. Not to mention the very real possibility of a return trip by the contents of his lunch onto the floor of his car, having experienced that same threat when he'd tried to reach across his body to perform those tasks in the first place.

That burger wasn't good enough going down the first time; he'd really rather not taste it again on the way back up.

But short of either sitting here until the Impala runs out of gas or until Sam comes out to see what's taking him so long, he's got to do something.

Like suck it up and stop acting like a gigantic baby.

And so he works slowly, carefully angling himself further towards the passenger's side of the car while keeping his foot planted firmly on the brake until he can use his left hand to put the car in park, his right arm still held immobile against his side. From this position, he can also turn the keys, which he gratefully does, taking them out of the ignition awkwardly with his left hand and transferring them to his right, palming them in order to give his otherwise unused appendage something useful to do.

Next, he eases out of the car, carefully unfolding himself while his left hand tries to offer support to his right arm, breathing out a sigh of relief once he's managed to gain an upright position without spewing his stomach contents all over the parking lot or passing out cold right there on the spot.

He makes his way cautiously up the sidewalk to the door of their motel room, his upper body listing slightly to the right in an effort to compensate for the pain and positioning of his shoulder, allowing himself one last grimace before steeling himself to come under the scrutiny of Sam's Eagle eye.

The continued coughing fits emanating from the other side of the motel room door have him hopeful that said Eagle eye will be just a touch less Eagle-y today.

 _Okay. Showtime._

"Hey," he says, carefully closing the door behind himself with his left hand, his right hand playing with his car keys while his right elbow sticks tight to his side in something that he hopes looks like a semi-normal position.

He gives his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dim interior lighting, his brow furrowing in genuine concern when he sees the pallor on his little brother's face, pure exhaustion evident in every bone of the gigantor body that's slumped against the head of the bed in a poor approximation of something resembling a living, breathing human being.

"How're you feeling?" He wisely chokes down the "because you look like crap" follow-up statement that almost falls out of his mouth, certain that such a rejoinder would put Sam on the offensive, calling his own less than stellar appearance into question in return.

"Awesome," Sam croaks out, that one word sending his lungs into spasms that bely his statement. "Uggghhhh," he groans out when his coughing fit has passed. "How'd it go?" he asks, rubbing his chest against the wheezing sting that's set up shop. "Did you get it?"

"Yep," Dean says, careful to have his mask of bravado in place. "Roasted and toasted. Nice and crispy," he adds, not sure if his nonchalance is meant more for himself or for Sam.

"Great. So now what?" Sam asks, succumbing to another coughing fit at the tail end of his question.

"Now we sit tight until you can breathe without hacking up a lung," Dean says, eyebrow raised in his best expression of Big Brother authority.

In truth, he's pretty sure he won't be good for much of anything right now either. It was all he could do to drive the five miles back to the motel without passing out, each bump in the road sending an ungodly spike of pain into his upper chest and shoulder.

He doesn't even want to begin to think about what hitting an actual pothole would feel like.

"Hey," Sam says, not missing the greenish tinge to his brother's complexion as Dean contemplates his latest thought. "You okay?"

"What?" Dean asks, blinking several times to clear the nauseating pothole train of thought from his brain. "Yeah. Fine."

He eases himself down into the chair at the little table just inside the room, careful to keep his face neutral against the threat of another grimace of pain as he tries to find some kind of position that won't make him want to curl up into a whimpering ball on the floor.

"You hungry?" Dean asks, thumbing through the meager Yellow Pages listing for delivery services in the area. Because he's not looking to drive anywhere just yet and their room contains the usual amount of mid-hunt fare. Which is a whole lot of nothing. And while he's still bordering on nausea with each tiny movement of his shoulder, he could still eat. As should Sam.

He eyeballs his brother, still slumped against the head of the bed, his wheezing just barely audible over the hum of the heater, and takes some comfort in the fact that at least Sam looks to be breathing relatively easily. When he's not busy trying to eject his lungs from his chest cavity, that is.

"I dunno," Sam replies in answer to Dean's question. "Yeah. Maybe?"

Sam really hasn't eaten much over the past couple of days, his appetite having been yet another casualty to his illness. But he knows he should probably get something into his stomach soon. Knows that his body needs nutrients to help fight off whatever germs he's got coursing through his veins.

And so he agrees that soup and sandwiches might just be tolerable, more than a little surprised when Dean places a call to have the food delivered. They usually don't like to spring for delivery.

But when Sam questions Dean about it, his brother just says he's let Sam out of his sight long enough, doesn't want to leave him alone any more.

Sam thinks to call "Bullshit" on Dean's reasoning, but the sentiment is put on the back burner by yet another spasm of coughing, effectively ending his argument about him being just fine, thank you very much.

And when Sam asks Dean exactly why it is that he's trying to eat his soup with his left hand, Dean just shrugs him off, saying he's been trying to become more ambidextrous.

Sam gives his brother a hard look, but just doesn't have the energy to delve deeper into the topic just now, all of his concentration being required to keep himself from choking to death on his supper on the off chance that he happens to be eating when his next coughing fit takes hold.

And later that night, after Dean's performed his little mother hen routine by ensuring Sam's tucked in for the night and has taken the necessary medications from their paltry first aid kit, Sam makes mention of the fact that Dean still hasn't taken off his jacket. To which Dean replies that he's cold. Even though Sam can clearly see the beads of perspiration dotting his forehead.

But instead of trying to get Dean to spill the beans on just what, for Pete's sake, is going on with him, he succumbs to yet another few minutes of coughing and gasping, his head pounding with lack of oxygen by the end of his little impromptu workout.

By the time Sam has quite literally come up for air, Dean is tucked under his own blankets, eyes closed, lying on his left side, looking for all the world like he's ready to drift off to sleep at any moment.

In truth, he's anything but. In fact, he's not sure that he'll actually be able to fall asleep tonight, between Sam's coughing and the pain in his upper chest that rears its ugly head with any miniscule movement by his shoulder. He'd snuck a leftover Vicodin while he was dishing out Sam's medicines, but even that's done little to take the edge off. He hadn't even been able to weasel his way out of his jacket when he'd tried, the motion it had necessitated instead sending blinding jolts up through his arm and chest and taking his own breath away.

 _Jesus,_ he thinks to himself as he tries to get into a passably comfortable position, _what a frickin' pair of sorry-ass hunters we are._

()o()o()o()o()

When Sam's sleep-weary eyes take in the LED readout of the little alarm clock on the nightstand between their beds, he's dismayed to see that it's 2:12 AM. Only thirty-five minutes after the last coughing fit woke him up. At this rate, he's going to need to sleep for a month to make up for his sleepless nights spent hacking and wheezing.

He glances over at Dean's bed to make sure he's not disturbing his brother, only to find the other bed empty, the sheets hanging off the side of the bed like someone had been dragged out against their will. And while he's not sure if Dean had actually been asleep, Sam knows that the last time he looked, Dean was still there in his bed. So at least he couldn't have gone too far.

He cranes his neck a little, finally able to make out the light shining underneath the closed bathroom door on the other side of the room, laying his head back on his pillow now that he knows where his brother is.

He lays quietly for a few moments, listening to the trailing wheeze on the ends of his exhalations, then holds his breath when he hears another sound in the background once the heater's kicked off.

He'd know that sound anywhere.

Dean.

Sam works himself into a seated position, then climbs carefully out of bed, straightening slowly to avoid the lightheadedness that likes to set in lately when he tries to change positions too quickly, shuffling over to the bathroom in an attempt to find out once and for all what's been going on with his brother.

"Dean?" he croaks out, the concern evident in his froggy voice. He gives a couple of soft knocks when he gets no answer, then renews his efforts, calling out a little more forcefully. "Dean!"

"Yeah," comes the gasping reply.

"You okay in there?"

"Fantastic," the automatic reply.

Sam isn't buying it.

Especially when his brain replays all of the little things since Dean got back from the hunt. Not using his right arm. Not taking off his jacket. His slow and careful movements.

 _Dammit_ , Sam thinks to himself, giving himself a mental head slap. _I should have seen it sooner._

He gives another knock on the door, then tries the doorknob when he fails to get any response, more than a little surprised when the knob turns freely under his hand, allowing him entrance into the small dingy bathroom.

The sight in front of his eyes does nothing to assuage the suspicions that have arisen in his germ-addled brain.

Dean's seated on the edge of the tub, curled into himself, his left hand pressed to his upper right chest, right arm still tucked tight against his side. The faint humming that Sam had heard through the door has stopped, as has the gentle rocking motion in which Dean had been engaged when Sam first opened the door.

Instead, he's blowing out controlled breaths through pursed lips in an attempt to get himself under control, the pain from having accidentally tried to move his right arm when he was drifting off to sleep sending him dangerously close to passing our right there on the grungy motel room floor.

He'd barely made it into the bathroom where he thought he'd be able to ride out the pain well out of earshot of Sam, and the very real continued possibility of blowing chunks made close proximity to the toilet not a bad idea anyway.

Not quite the evening he had planned.

"Dude, what's going on?" Sam asks, lowering himself down onto the closed toilet seat.

"Nothing, Sam. Go back to bed. You need your rest."

"Bullshit," Sam says, this time managing to get his thoughts out of his mouth. "Something's wrong. Tell me."

Dean stays silent, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he tries to figure out if there's any way this doesn't end up with Sam finding out the truth.

 _Dammit._

He lets out a resigned sigh when he gets no bright ideas, screwing up his face into an expression of wry apology as he glances up at his brother.

"Would you believe I got tackled by a 500-pound ghost?"

"And?" Sam prompts, his curiosity not yet sated.

"And I kind of landed on my shoulder?"

Sam rolls his eyes, huffs out an expression of exasperation before trying to stifle a cough, and then says, "Is it out? Why didn't you tell me, dumbass? I could have put it back in for you hours ago."

"Ummm," Dean draws out, "not exactly."

"Well what then?" Sam asks, his gaze sharpening in an effort to see beneath his brother's jacket and shirts to the underlying anatomy.

Dean shifts his left hand from its position on his collarbone, moving his shirts and jacket out of the way in order for Sam to get a good look at the grotesque bump that is the current bane of his existence.

Sam's eyes widen, his head shrinking back just a tad when he gets a look at the skin tenting over Dean's broken bone, his gaze darting back up to his brother's face quickly to do a more thorough search of how he's holding up.

"Can you move it?"

Dean shakes his head quickly, his face paling a bit as he even thinks about doing so.

Sam makes him squeeze his hand, checks to make sure he can feel everything, and just tells Dean to "shut up and let me do this, you big jerk" when Dean tries to reassure his little brother that he's already done all of this stuff himself.

Not that Dean can really blame Sam; he has been a little less than forthcoming and he'd want the same reassurance if the shoe was on the other foot, so to speak.

"Want to move this little party out of here?" Dean asks, his ass now protesting his position perched on the narrow edge of the tub.

Sam helps haul Dean to his feet, not missing the grimace on his face or the compensatory rightward tilt of his upper body as he makes his way to his bed, sitting down gingerly on the end before doubling over again, a groan escaping past his otherwise clenched teeth.

"So," Sam says, easing himself down into the armchair across from where Dean's seated, giving in to another brief fit of coughing before being able to continue. "Just what was the game plan here?" Sam asks, giving his brother the best Bitch Face he can muster under the circumstances.

Dean gives a half-hearted one-shouldered shrug, a look of chagrin making its way onto his face. Because in truth, he hadn't really thought past "don't let Sam find out".

He's really got to work on coming up with better plans.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

A few quick taps on the keyboard and Sam's in full-on Doctor Google mode, doing his best to persuade Dean that they need to head to the hospital to get him checked out.

Dean initially argues that it's just pain, that he can take it. And then quickly loses any color he had left in his face when Sam reads through the list of potential complications that can occur with a displaced clavicular fracture (clavicle being the more medical term for the collarbone, Sam's quick to point out), the broken ends of the bone puncturing his lung or severing an artery or nerve being the ones he'd most like to avoid. Plus, at some point in time, he'd actually like to be able to use his right arm again.

So, he begrudgingly agrees, grumbling the entire car ride about how much of a dirty player Sam is, while on some level grateful that at least one of them is looking out for him.

Sam, for his part, just rolls his eyes and keeps his mouth shut, the cold night air ratcheting up the coughing and wheezing to the point that it takes his full concentration just to keep their car on the road.

It's almost a miracle unto itself that the Impala finds its way safely to the nearest ER, although Sam seems to find every bump in the road, leaving Dean a white-faced mess, gasping and cursing like his life depends on it each time the ends of his collarbone move around in his chest.

By the time Sam pulls the Impala into the parking lot of the hospital, it's a toss-up as to which of the Winchesters deserves the most medical attention. Dean's got a sheen of cold sweat slicking his forehead, the pallor on his face giving him an unearthly glow as he clutches his right arm desperately in an attempt to keep his shoulder from making any further movements, while Sam's trying valiantly to keep enough air flowing steadily through his own traitorous lungs so he doesn't pass out cold right there in the driver's seat.

Once the brothers have managed to make their way inside, the woman at the registration desk foists the paperwork at Sam, her assumption being that the man standing in front of her coughing up a lung is the prospective patient.

And while he has no intention of getting checked out, is doing his best to convince himself that he's on the upswing, actually, he works through the forms, figuring it will be quicker for him to do so than to have Dean try to figure out a way to use his hand to write without moving the rest of his arm.

Not to mention the fact that this way, he's sure that the forms actually get completed and his older brother gets evaluated.

By the time Dean's name is called, there's a wide berth surrounding the boys, Sam's intermittent coughing fits sending any nearby chair mates fleeing for less germ-filled air, and the otherwise nonplussed woman at the registration desk lets out a sigh of relief when the coughing giant leaves her waiting room.

"Alright," says the nurse who's accompanied the brothers back to Dean's exam room. "I need you to take off your jacket and shirt and put this on," she says, placing a blue cotton gown on the end of his bed.

"Uhhhh," he says, eyeballing the gown warily. Because one – it's a hospital gown. He doesn't do gowns. And two – he's not quite sure how he's going to move his arm enough to accomplish the task of getting himself undressed.

"Let me know if you need help," she says, reading the uncertainty on his face. "We can always cut them off if you can't get out of them."

Dean shoots Sam a panicked look, not wanting to lose his jacket and one of his favorite shirts in addition to his dignity.

Sam gives the nurse a reassuring smile and tells her that they'll be fine, all the while steeling himself for the job ahead. Because trying to help his injured brother is sometimes tantamount to trying to tend to a wounded animal.

In reality, the task of getting Dean's arm out of his clothing goes much smoother than either one of them had been expecting, if you don't count the steady stream of curses emanating from the mouth of the older Winchester. They take it slow and steady, Sam directing traffic and doing most of the proverbial heavy lifting while Dean focuses on keeping his right arm still and supported, both brothers having done this enough times for each other that it's like a well-choreographed dance.

Dean still refuses to put the gown on, mostly out of spite and sheer orneriness, and while Sam initially tells him that it's his choice if he wants to freeze to death, when he actually sees his brother shiver (which is quickly followed by a wincing grimace due to the resultant motion in his clavicle), he just rolls his eyes and drapes one of the extra sheets across his back, pulling it together in front with little more than an exasperated shake of his shaggy head.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, giving his brother a tired half-smile.

"Don't mention it, you big jerk."

"Alright, what do we have here?" asks the woman who enters the room, clad in scrubs and a white coat, stethoscope hanging from her neck, looking more like a grandmother who should be at home baking cookies instead of trying to save lives. She introduces herself as the attending ER doctor on duty, shaking Sam's hand before performing an awkward left-handed shake with Dean when he refuses to move his right arm.

"So, uh," Dean says, squirming under the eyes of both the doctor and Sam, "I'm pretty sure I broke my collarbone."

Sam snorts at his brother's understatement, sending him into a coughing fit that has the doctor's eyebrows rising towards her disheveled permed hairline.

"You okay over there? Think maybe I should take a listen to you while you're here?" she asks, settling herself on a rolling stool in front of Dean. She glances up at Dean in question and doesn't miss the concern evident on the young man's face, not sure if it's for himself or the other man in the room.

"Nah, I'm good", Sam says, wheezing audibly once his coughing fit's under control.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean says, trying to focus on his brother instead of the doctor's fingers as she gently palpates along his collarbone. "If I've gotta get checked out, then so do you." He briefly thinks that maybe there is a silver lining to his injury after all, then loses that train of thought as she hits a spot that sends a fireball through his upper chest, a hiss of pain escaping past his clenched teeth before he can stop himself.

"Can you move it?" she asks, gesturing towards his arm.

Dean gives the same quick head shake he'd given Sam, the miniscule amount of motion they'd had to perform in order to get his arm out of his jacket and shirts more than enough for one day.

"Alright," she says after she's completed her exam. "X-rays it is," she adds, giving him a reassuring pat to his good shoulder. "Want anything for the pain?"

Dean gives it some careful consideration, weighs the pain against his usual reaction to the pain meds, then acquiesces when she offers something less liable to knock him on his ass, as he'd so eloquently put it.

"Okay," she says to Sam after taking a listen to his lungs, "quick fill these out for me so I don't get fired," she says, handing over the same registration forms he'd filled out for Dean, "then we can get you some good stuff too."

The nurse comes back into the room, gives Dean an injection for his pain (the where of the shot practically causing him to walk out right then are there) and then sets Sam up with a nebulizer machine, the younger Winchester looking like a recalcitrant child as he sulks over his breathing treatment while the older Winchester grumbles about having to be taken back to the X-ray department in a wheelchair.

"Sorry, hospital policy," she says, making sure Sam's breathing okay on the medicated mist before taking Dean back to have his collarbone imaged.

By the time Dean's shoulder has been x-rayed, Sam's had an additional treatment, and even though the medicine has made his heart rate speed up to the point that he feels like he's just run a couple of miles, his lungs actually do feel better.

And thankfully, Dean's pain levels have slightly lessened as well, the shot he'd been given not nearly as powerful as the typical pain medications he's received over the years but much less likely to cause him to do something that Sam will delight in reminding him about until one of them is dead.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asks Sam when she returns to the room, listening to his lungs once again.

"Better, thanks," he says, letting out a breath and making note of the lack of an accompanying wheeze for the first time in several days.

"Good," she says, giving a nod of satisfaction. "Now for you," she says, turning to Dean. "Sorry to say that you're not so easy."

Sam snorts, thinking about how many jokes he has to the contrary, again more than a little happy to find that he doesn't succumb to a coughing fit. Although if Dean's expression had its way, he'd be a dead man right here in the middle of the hospital, the older Winchester well aware of the comments on the tip of Sam's tongue regarding his sexual endeavors.

"So I talked with the orthopedic surgeon on-call," she says, ignoring the nonverbal conversation taking place around her. "He took a look at your x-rays through the hospital system and thinks you'll probably do best if you have surgery to get the bones lined back up properly. He's on his way in, should be here in another half hour or so. You okay for now?" she asks, not missing the dejection on the wan face of her patient.

Dean gives a slight nod, too tired to argue that they don't really need to stay, especially given the fact that he already had the sneaking suspicion that surgery was yet again in his future.

"Dude, this sucks," he says to Sam once the two of them are once again alone in the exam room.

"Yeah. Guess you wish you'd let me come along on the hunt, huh?" Sam asks, eyebrow raised in bland challenge.

"Shut up," Dean mumbles, his response little more than a formality.

Because he'd been thinking the same damned thing.

()o()o()o()o()

Seven hours later and Dean's the proud new recipient of a plate and several screws in his right clavicle, a sling that wraps both up and over his opposite shoulder and around his waist in order to render his shoulder immobile, and a glum outlook on his short-term future. Because six weeks of not being able to use his dominant arm sounds like torture.

The surgeon had worked him into his schedule that morning, not liking the way the bones looked on the x-rays. A sentiment he'd echoed in the recovery room to Sam and Dean, leaving the older Winchester even queasier than the medications and pain were already making him when he'd detailed just how close the jagged ends of the bones had been to some of his more vital structures.

Yet another reason to be begrudgingly thankful for Sam's nattering worriedness.

Not that he'll ever tell his little brother; wouldn't want to reinforce his annoying penchant for self-righteous "I told you so's".

But Dean is glad to see that Sam seems to be making a lot less musical noises with his chest, the coughing and wheezing having settled down following his treatments in the ED, and he's hopeful that the prescriptions for the inhaler and steroids Sam had been given will keep his little brother's respiratory system on the straight and narrow.

A sentiment echoed by Sam, the knowledge of what an injured and grouchy Dean will require very well ingrained in his head after twenty-something years of living in such close proximity.

And it's not a pretty picture.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"You sure you're okay over there?"

"Yes mom," Dean mutters sarcastically, continuing to try to shift himself against the head of the bed in an attempt to get his arm and back into a more comfortable position.

They've been back at the Cheddar Wheel Motor Lodge for the better part of two days now and he's still trying to figure out what position will be least likely to send his back into spasms.

So far, he's been unsuccessful.

Nor has he been successful in trying to get Sam to allow him an early exit out of his sling, "just to put my frickin' shirt on the right way".

He's been stuck with having to wear his T shirt overtop of his sling for the first few days following his surgery, the ridiculousness of his appearance (empty T shirt and jacket sleeve flapping in the breeze while his immobilized arm creates a rather tumor-like bump across his chest) rivaling his overall discomfort in the competition to see which sequelae of his fracture and surgical repair Dean can complain about most frequently.

While there's no clear winner, Sam is most definitely the unfortunate loser.

And while he'd at least had a chance of slipping under the radar while Sam had been down for the count, Dean has no wiggle room any more, his younger brother taking seriously his role as nursemaid now that his own symptoms have lessened considerably.

Sam's still using the inhalers on a regular basis, but he's been spreading out their frequency more and more like the doctor in the ER had told him to do, and he's actually been able to sleep for decent portions of the night without waking himself up in a fit of coughing and gasping.

Dean, however, hasn't been quite so lucky.

While the sling is at least supporting his arm and keeping him from moving his shoulder, it's also causing him to feel just a tad bit claustrophobic. Except at night. When it makes him feel a lot claustrophobic.

Because he's used to lying spread-eagle on his belly, knife clutched in his hand, face buried in his pillow.

And now he's relegated to lying on his left side or back, able to clutch a weapon in his right hand only if he wants to impale himself, the feeling of being trapped doing just as much to keep him awake as the actual discomfort of his still aching collarbone.

When Sam finally deems him fit to be able to remove the sling for a couple of minutes in order to begin the passive shoulder motions prescribed by the surgeon, Dean thinks he could practically hug his brother. If he were a hugger. And if said motion wouldn't elicit blinding pain in his arm and chest.

So he settles for following the post-op instructions Sam carefully lays out for him, working his way slowly through the ridiculous pendulum exercises which amount to little more than letting his arm sway back and forth without actually moving it on his own, as well as moving his elbow and wrist through their normal motions in an effort to prevent his whole arm from locking up on him.

And once said "exercises" are completed (Dean taking serious issue with the use of that word in this instance), the elder Winchester feels more satisfaction than he'd ever want to admit when he's allowed to work his T shirt over his freed right arm, careful to keep it passive and still while his left hand does all the work, shrugging it the rest of the way in place before Sam helps him back into the sling.

"Better?" Sam asks, securing the strap around his waist once again.

Dean nods, barely able to suppress a dopey grin of glee while he uses his left hand to try to get the wrinkles under the straps smoothed out, forgoing a verbal response for fear that he might just start shedding tears of joy.

Because now that the sling's on overtop of his shirt, the ridiculous factor has been dialed way down.

The boredom factor, however, is an entirely different matter.

Dean and boredom have never gotten along very well. In fact, their father had often remarked that curiosity may kill the cat but a bored Dean will kill them all. Add injury into the mix and it's a wonder the elder Winchester brother hadn't been smothered in his sleep long ago.

The way they grew up made them no stranger to long stretches of time in the car, long hours spent on stakeouts and research, and long periods of time just waiting for the other shoe to drop in general.

And they've developed coping mechanisms to get them through said interminable hours of nothingness.

Sam usually resorts to his computer, using it to pull up information on whatever it is they're hunting, losing himself to the tech world for hours on end.

But Dean had managed to download a virus onto Sam's computer the first day after his surgery, causing Sam to have to wipe his hard drive and reinstall all the necessary programs.

Needless to say, Sam had not been amused. Although Dean kind of was. Especially when Sam couldn't manage to complete his expletive-laced dressing down due to the coughing fits that kept interrupting his otherwise impressive verbal tirade.

Of course, Dean's resultant laughter had turned out to be its own curse, the shaking of his shoulders jostling his broken bone, ratcheting up the pain in his already throbbing collarbone to the point that he himself was gasping for air.

The brothers have also been known to engage in some rather cutthroat games of poker, winner take whatever the other considered his most prized possession at the time, but Sam's medications, while helping his breathing, did nothing for his mental clarity, and before he'd known what the hell just happened, Dean had laid claim to his favorite silver Zippo.

Of course, the fact that Dean had conveniently "forgotten" to take his own medications may or may not have had an impact on the outcome of the game.

Although it definitely had an impact on the subsequent few hours, when even the slightest hint of a twitch by his shoulder muscles almost made him want to curl up in a ball and pray for the sweet release of unconsciousness.

And while Dean can usually occupy himself for hours cleaning his weapons and playing with his knives, his left hand is nowhere near as skilled as his right, a fact that has Sam on edge each time his brother utters a rather urgent "Oh shit," unsure if a return trip to the ER will be necessary to reattach any missing digits or plug any unintended holes.

Not to mention the fact that Sam's endured just about as much daytime television as he thinks his brain can tolerate without having it actually liquefy and ooze out his ears. He's not sure how much more overacting, see-through plot lines, and mind-numbing dialogue he can handle. The fact that Dean seems to know much more about the ongoing story lines than he himself has been able to glean from their few days in the motel room leaves him highly suspicious that his brother has some side hobbies that seriously need to be mocked.

Dean's answer to Sam's teasing inquiry during one of the Dramatic Music Moments, besides a shifty look, is an emphatic retort for Sam to mind his own damn business.

Because he's pretty sure they're about to reveal who the father really is.

While doing nothing to assure Sam that his brother isn't a closet daytime TV junkie (his brother's impassioned "I knew it" following some Big Reveal Moment in fact cementing his suspicion), Dean's response does spur Sam on to find other ways to fill their downtime.

So Sam scours the web, his computer thankfully suffering no long-term effects from the elder Winchester's foray into questionable websites, trying to find relatively benign activities that will both hold Dean's flea-sized attention span while keeping himself from wanting to poke out his own eyes.

Unfortunately, there's not a whole lot of overlap between the two.

()o()o()o()o()

"Come on man. Up and at 'em," Sam calls out, gently tugging the covers off of his still sleeping older brother.

"Get off," Dean whines, giving a half-hearted kick in an attempt to prevent Sam from completely taking away his cocoon of warmth.

But Sam persists, flicking on the lights and generally making a ruckus, causing Dean to give a few additional growls of frustration before working himself up into a seated position with his left arm and scrubbing his face in an effort to get some of his brain cells moving.

"What the hell has you so damned happy this morning?" Dean asks, his suspicious gaze taking in his brother's movements as Sam finishes toweling off his wet hair.

"Road trip."

"Yeah?" Dean asks, his interest piquing just slightly at the mention of the road, even if it does mean that he might miss today's episodes; they've been hyping the fact that Tara's going to find out that she has a half-sister by her stepmother's cousin sometime this week. He guesses he'll just have to sweet talk Sam into letting him surf the web later tonight.

"You get us a hunt?" he continues, slowly getting himself upright and stretching out the kinks in his back while he gives Sam a searching glance.

"Yeeaaahh," Sam drawls, before adding, "not so much." He helps Dean out of his sling, keeping an Eagle eye on his brother as he does his short set of arm exercises, inwardly cringing at the thought of letting Dean anywhere near a hunt right now.

Because despite Dean's assurances to the contrary, he's pretty sure his brother won't be fit to pick up a gallon of milk, let alone a job, for a couple of months. And while he, himself, has finished his course of steroids and is no longer needing his inhalers on a routine basis, he's just now starting to feel like a human being again, still weaker and more easily fatigued than he's used to.

Not quite the ideal circumstances to attempt to take on the things that try to kill them on a regular basis.

"So what then?" Dean persists, sitting back down on his bed once he's finished his shoulder exercises, using his lap to keep his right arm supported while his left rifles through his duffle bag in search of semi-clean clothing.

"It's a surprise," Sam says, not yet wanting to divulge his plans to Dean. He's pretty sure his brother will actually enjoy what he's got up his sleeve, but he doesn't want to give him any chances to mock his choices without actually experiencing them first.

"Better be good," Dean mutters, giving his brother a hard glare as he throws his clothing over his left shoulder and makes his way into the bathroom, right arm held carefully by his left.

He'd been given the go-ahead to remove the sling in order to shower at his recent post-op visit, and it's a toss-up as to which Winchester was happier with the fact; Dean had been smelling kind of ripe, the makeshift baths he'd been allowed to take not quite doing the job, and neither Winchester had wanted to revert back to their childhood days of shared bath time.

So although it's still not ideal, what with the inventive contortionism it takes to get his left armpit washed without the use of his right arm and the need to keep his right shoulder immobile even without the sling, he still takes delight in the fact that he can actually take a shower, especially given the fact that there's still hot water left for him, the brothers finding it necessary at times to ensure that the late riser has a rather frigid eye-opener.

Toweling off as best he can with his left hand, Dean slowly gets himself dressed, the majority of the chore now rather manageable after the initial first few days of awkward fumbling, although he still needs Sam's help to get the sling fastened properly.

"Alright," Dean says, picking up his keys with his left hand and swinging the keychain around his index finger, "where am I headed?"

Sam's eyebrow slides up towards his hairline as he gives his brother a look of disbelief, backing up his expression with his retort. " _You_ are headed to the passenger's seat. I'm driving." He neatly snatches the keys out of his brother's hand, making his way outside while Dean sputters along after him.

"Hey! My car. I'm driving."

"Man, you can't even get the car in gear."

"Can so," Dean grumbles, glaring at the sling that makes his assurance virtually impossible, unless he wants to engage in a bit of creative maneuvering that will no doubt be accompanied by an ear full of Sam's self-righteous mocking.

He huffs out his exasperation, giving his brother the hairiest eyeball he can muster before sliding carefully into the passenger's seat, raising a finger in warning when he sees Sam begin to open his mouth to no doubt make some snarky comment about him not even being able to close the door.

The meager slam he manages with his left hand is _so_ not satisfactory.

 _Dammit._

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

A/N: Love your feedback – thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Come on man, I'm hungry."

"Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first ten times," Sam mutters, worrying his lower lip as he concentrates on finding the address he's been looking for.

He'd at least been able to shut his brother up for a little while with his first stop, a little drive-through coffee place Sam had found online while he'd been planning the day's activities.

While the coffee itself was decent, giving the brothers their necessary caffeine fix for the morning, it was really the overall atmosphere that had caught Sam's attention. Because the baristas are all women, and all dress according to the day's planned theme.

The fact that Sam had conveniently chosen to pay a visit on Wild West Wednesday meant that Dean had practically climbed over him in an attempt to give the scantily clad cowgirl that had taken their order a "Howdy Pardner", leaving Sam conflicted between being upset with himself for propagating male chauvinism by visiting the establishment in the first place or grateful that his brother's libido is so damned predictable.

But Sam knows that desperate times call for desperate measures, and within the span of five minutes (one minute to get their coffee order and four for Dean to flirt with all of the baristas in the small establishment), he's not only got a pretty decent cup of coffee, but one brother with a decidedly improved outlook on life.

Although now that the caffeine and pheromones have lost some of their luster, Dean's grumbling has kicked back up a notch, especially now that his empty stomach's gotten in on the act as well.

"Sweet," Sam mumbles to himself as he parallel parks the Impala in an open spot in front of the address he'd been looking for.

He gets out of the car, checks his phone for confirmation, then heads around to the passenger's side, opening the door for Dean before he can reach across himself to complete the task, the older Winchester giving the younger a look that says "this better be good" as he slowly and carefully unfolds himself from the car, his gaze sweeping the row of businesses lined up on the small-town street in front of them in order to try to figure out what the hell his little brother's up to.

It's not until Sam ushers him through the door of the building directly in front of them that he figures out where they're headed, but when he does, his eyebrow slides upwards, still not quite sure he knows what Sam's geek brain has been plotting.

Because although it appears that they're headed into something called The Wisconsin Cheese Factory, Dean's not all that convinced that Sam should look quite as pleased with himself as he currently does.

Ditto for their next stop, although the fact that this one's a local brewery has Dean giving his little brother at least a little credit.

But by their fifth stop Dean's as happy as a clam.

Because Sam's put together a map, the plan being to alternate cheese factories with breweries in an effort to keep his brother fed (and perhaps slightly inebriated), knowing that that combination affords him the best chance of keeping Dean out of trouble and in a tolerable frame of mind.

And while Dean's busy enjoying the free samples that come with the tours, Sam is quite interested to learn the behind the scene "how to's" of the food and beverage-making processes.

And his plan goes off pretty well for the most part. He's able to engage in some rather interesting discussions with the cheese makers and brewers regarding the steps in their respective processes, learns about which ingredients offer the best flavors and textures, and gets some interesting insights into the business aspects as well, while Dean makes it his mission to determine who has the squeakiest cheese curds and which beer produces the highest quality belch.

All in all, Sam's pretty pleased with himself. He's managed to find something entertaining for Dean and educational for himself, all while keeping them from wanting to kill each other.

He should have known it was too easy.

They're at their final cheese factory of the day when his luck finally runs out.

"Sam," Dean hisses urgently, gesturing his younger brother over to the corner table of the tasting room he's been occupying, trying to decide if the white Cheddar or sharp Jack curds give the most satisfying squeak, when he'd accidentally overheard the comments of a couple passing employees.

"What?" Sam asks, ambling over with amused expression on his face. "Need an objective palate for your taste test?"

"Dude, no," Dean says, protecting his remaining cheese with his left hand. "Stay away from my curds, man. No. Listen," he says, dropping his voice and glancing around to make sure he's not overheard. "I think there might be Something going on here."

Sam gives his brother a dubious look, eyebrow quirked as he considers his brother's meaning. "Going on how?" he draws out, his stomach already starting to drop as he anticipates his brothers next words.

"Like our kind of Something," Dean whispers urgently, the excitement regarding a possible hunt lighting up his eyes. "I heard these two employees talking just now, saying, and I quote, 'If we don't get rid of that damned Cheese Monster pretty soon, we're gonna have to shut down'."

Sam lets out a low groan, kicking himself for not doing his due diligence and cross-checking his beer and cheese tour with possible supernatural phenomenon.

"Think maybe we should check it out?" Dean asks, his voice edged with a hint of pleading. "Just to be sure?"

"Ummmm, no."

"Come on Sammy," Dean wheedles, his eyebrows waggling as a sly grin spreads across his face. "I think this monster might be up to no Gouda."

Sam's Bitch Face is the only response to his brother's lame joke.

"What's the matter? You don't think this hunt is Gouda enough for us?" Dean says, barely containing the glee at having so many puns at his disposal. "Dude," he says, managing to turn the word into a whine. "Come on. It's a Cheese Monster. I'm pretty sure I saw it on Scooby Doo once. How dangerous could it be?"

"Alright, fine," Sam huffs out, already regretting his decision. "We can check it out."

"That's Gouda enough for me," Dean says, his barely-contained glee directed equally towards finally having something useful to do again and at his continued word play.

"You done?" Sam asks, eyebrow quirked in bland exasperation.

Dean purses his lips and narrows his eyes, wracking his brain for any additional quips, nodding sadly when he fails to come up with any further cheese-themed jokes.

"Oh, hey!" he adds, his face lighting up again, the expression on his face causing Sam to cringe in anticipation of whatever's about to come out of his brother's mouth next. "I think I know how to kill it." He gives Sam an eager look, practically vibrating as he tries to get Sam to take the bait. He waits a few extra beats, finally unable to contain himself any longer when his brother fails to respond. "I think one of us might need to cut the cheese."

"Oh my God," Sam moans. "You are such a fucking idiot."

"Face it Sam. When it comes to snappy word play, I'm a whiz."

"Yeah. A Cheese Whiz."

Dean's eyebrows slam together as he tries to figure out if his brother's complimenting him on his verbal prowess or comparing him to liquid cheese.

 _Son of a bitch._

()o()o()o()o()

"See anything yet?"

"No. You?"

"Nothing. EMF's quiet too."

The boys are slowly and strategically making their way through the cheese factory in the wee hours of the morning, all of the employees having long since departed for the comfort of their own homes, leaving the Winchesters to check out the deserted building on their own.

The brothers had visited the final brewery on Sam's agenda and had then holed up in a nearby diner for the remainder of the evening, not wanting to trek all the way back to the motel just to have to turn right around and come back to check out the factory after hours, and the fact that Sam's exhaustive internet search into local supernatural phenomenon had turned up diddly-squat went a fair ways towards putting his mind at ease about what they're doing.

Because even though Dean kept insisting on what he'd heard, Sam now doubts the actual meaning behind the words.

But if it'll make Dean feel better to check it out, then he's more than happy to oblige. Especially now that he thinks they're on a wild goose chase.

"Dude," Dean whispers from across the storage room they're currently searching. "You hear that?"

Both brothers still, ears straining to pick up any noises that seem out of the ordinary.

"Yeah, what is it?" Sam asks, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he reconsiders the possibility that they actually might be dealing with Something in their wheelhouse after all.

He sweeps his flashlight back and forth across the concrete floor in front of himself, training the light into the dark corners and onto the pallets of cheese-containing crates, his arm coming to a stop when he gets a good look at the likely source of the high-pitched squeak that had caught their attention.

"Uh, dude?" Sam says, his voice tinged with relief and a hint of a laugh. "I think I found your Cheese Monster."

"What? Where?" Dean asks, a tone of urgency in his voice as his flashlight continues to swing around the room. "I don't see anything."

"Over there, dumbass."

Sam trains his light into the corner and as Dean approaches he can make out a little gray ball of fur, nose twitching as its beady eyes stare back, its forepaws clutching a hunk of cheese as it stands upright on its back legs.

"Say hello to the Cheese Monster," Sam says, swinging his flashlight up to Dean's face in time to see the expression of disbelief morph into one of disappointed embarrassment.

"Oh, son of a bitch," Dean grumbles, scuffing his boot against the floor in a show of dejection.

The movement of his foot spooks the mouse, sending it darting towards Sam, who does a quick-thinking two-step that makes Dean wish he'd been able to catch his brother's spastic movements on video.

His amusement is short-lived, however, when the lightening-quick ball of fur makes a sudden ninety-degree turn and makes a beeline straight for him, its movements speedier than his flashlight can follow.

"Where'd it go?" Sam asks, swinging his flashlight around as he searches for the mouse, not wanting to step on the little guy.

He swings the light up to Dean's face just in time to see his brother's eyes go wide, his lower body jerking and twisting as he begins to perform something akin to a demented hula hoop dance.

"Sam! Get it out! Get it out!" Dean cries, slapping at his jeans with his left hand, shaking out his right leg as he tries to dislodge his rather unwelcome visitor.

Because he knows exactly where the mouse is.

"What? Where?" Sam asks, frozen to the spot, his eyes widening as he realizes what's caused Dean's little impromptu dance routine.

"It's the… In my …. Sam! It's headed north!" The panic in Dean's voice is quite clear.

"Hold still!"

"Hold still? Are you kidding me? It's headed north! You know what's north right?" Dean's question is, in fact, quite rhetorical; every guy is very well aware of what lies north.

Sam's nose wrinkles in response, unsure if he's sorrier for his brother or the mouse.

"Just…," Sam trails off, looking around the room in search of something helpful, finally grabbing a catalogue lying on one of the nearby shelves, murmuring a couple of "I'm sorry's" equally directed at the small misguided rodent and the equally freaked-out elder Winchester as he swats at his brother's pants in an effort to dislodge the mouse from its scenic tour of Dean's right leg.

Sam finally makes contact and with one final squeak the mouse drops to the floor, where it sits still for a couple of seconds before darting off in the opposite direction, leaving both Winchesters equally stunned.

The silence is finally broken when Sam lets out a nervous chuckle, dissolving into full-blown laughter within the span of seconds, while Dean just glowers at his brother, not at all amused by the way the evening turned out.

"Shut up," he grumbles as Sam gasps for air following a particular laugh/cough combination that Dean thinks serves his brother right. "Little fuckers carry disease."

"Yeah, unlike you, who's pure as the driven snow," Sam says when he can finally pull enough air back into his lungs to voice his thoughts. He wipes away a few tears of laughter that have escaped the corner of his eye, giving scrutiny to his older brother who, apart from looking extremely pissed off and embarrassed, also looks more than a little uncomfortable. "You okay?"

"Yeah, peachy," Dean retorts, the pain in his collarbone letting him know that he's apparently engaged in some rather ill-advised activities. Because his legs weren't the only things getting a good workout – his shoulder had also apparently been in on the action. "Owww, shit," he mutters, grimacing at the pain radiating through his right upper chest and arm now that the adrenaline has worn off.

"You need to sit down?" Sam presses, warily eyeing his brother as he tries to blow slow and steady breathes out in order to get himself back under control, his left arm trying to offer support to his right even as he leans slightly forward and to the right to try to get any additional strain off of his injured side.

"Nah," he says, eyes tightly closed, adding a head shake for good measure. "Just give me a minute."

He takes a couple additional deep breaths, finally straightening himself back upright and giving Sam the nod that he's good to go, careful to follow in Sam's footsteps lest he trip over some wayward object and jar his still screaming shoulder even worse.

Once back in the car, Sam slides a glance over to Dean who's still grimacing his way through getting himself settled in his seat, the younger Winchester taking just a tad bit of pity on his older brother before his thoughts tumble out of his mouth.

"Dude, you are such an idiot."

"Yeah? You try having a little clawed rodent climb up your leg and see how you like it," grumbles Dean, sparing Sam a glance of disgust before reaching out and fiddling with the knob on the radio.

"No," Sam begins, a smile creeping across his face as he relives Dean's ridiculous dance moves back in the factory. "I mean, yeah, but no. I mean I think it's pretty clear that you're way off your game right now. Me too," he hastens on to add when Dean begins to scoff. "I just think we need to lay low a little longer, you know? Take it easy."

Dean slides Sam another glance, gives his brother a measuring look, and then finally huffs out a sigh, his shoulders dropping in resignation at his brother's recommendation.

Because he's right. He knows Sam's right. He'd been so eager to go do something, go kill some Evil, that he hadn't put in the proper work, had failed to look at all the angles.

If he'd done something half-assed like this on an actual hunt, they could be in some deep shit right now.

Although as it is, he's pretty sure he's in some deep something with Sam, although it's more likely to be never-ending ribbing and general mouse-themed mockery until the day he dies.

 _Dammit._

"Alright," Dean says, "We lay low. On one condition," he adds, sliding Sam yet another look, this one with a calculating edge. "We never speak of this again. Like ever."

Sam's eyes narrow, his expression making it clear that he's doing some calculations of his own.

"Alright, fine," Sam finally says. "The great mouse capade gets forgotten as long as you agree to let me decide when you're ready to pick up a hunt."

Dean lets out a rather resigned sigh, his previous loophole to an early return to hunting taken away by Sam's rewording of the agreement. Damn his little brother and his intimate knowledge of the way Dean's brain works.

"Remember, you start whining about going out on hunts before you're healed and tonight's little dance routine sees daylight yet again," Sam says, glancing over at Dean, seeking assurance that his brother understands the terms of their deal.

"Yeah, yeah," mutters Dean, throwing Sam a sly glance. "I _curd_ you the first time."

Sam groans, kicking himself for not adding some sort of clause to prevent Dean from continuing his cheese-themed word play.

Although if he's being honest, it's kind of fitting.

Because his brother just might be the biggest cheeseball he knows.

 _ **The End**_

A/N: I know this last chapter was un-Brie-lievably cheesy, but it's not my fault. It's all Dean. He just can't help himself.


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